My first official crack fic! :D For the record, the book noted is made up but the philosopher is real. This story was inspired by Iamblichus' theory that in order to truly understand something you need to relate with it "erotically"… and the obvious misunderstandings that would go along with a theory like that.

Warnings: Mild language, innuendo, philosophy bashing. Oh, and fluff. There's always fluff. ^^'

Jazz knocked gently on the closed door, not really expecting anyone to answer; Frederic hated being cooped up in his room when he didn't have to be. Jazz smiled to himself, picturing the man out wandering somewhere with a basket over one arm, half-filled with mushrooms that he still fdidn't know were inedible. Poor guy.

He hoped he liked his present.

The swordsman pushed the door open and stepped inside, glancing around despite himself. Gods, he shouldn't be so nervous. It wasn't a big deal. But he was, still, terrified that someone would walk in and he would have to come up with a decent explanation of why he was standing in his best friend's empty room with a wrapped box of chocolates in one hand. Their new and secret relationship was thrilling, of course, but there were some things that were hard to hide.

Speaking of hiding, where was he going to put the box, anyway? He sort of wanted Frederic to find it, rather than just seeing it when he walked in, but unearthing a bunch of stale sweets in the bottom of the dresser drawer wasn't all that romantic either. He looked down at the bed almost nervously and tugged back the edge of the blanket. It was the perfect place, but Jazz wasn't sure if Frederic would be upset he'd been in his bed; even the idea itself might be offensive to the pianist's sensibilities.

He pulled back the blanket further, coloring a little at the way the mattress had sunk down in places, taking on the shape of the small body. It was… intimate, in a way he hadn't expected. In a way that made him catch his breath and wonder if all of Frederic was like this – crisp and ironed and put together on the outside, and then diminutive on the inside, and delicate, and shy, shy, shy the way Jazz was feeling now.

His reverie was broken by a splash of red partially hidden under the tangled covers; a book, he realized, bending down to retrieve it. Frederic must've fallen asleep reading. He turned it over in his hands, the leather binding soft against his skin, and stopped short. The title was embossed in gold, calligraphic letters curling sensually across the scarlet rawhide:

Erotic Relations.

What the hell? Jazz blinked, and blushed, and trailed his fingers over the gilded letters as though trying to make sure he hadn't misread them. But no, that was what they said. Erotic Relations.

Frederic, bashful, reserved little Frederic, kept books like this under his mattress? Jazz had a sudden image of the slighter man spread out across the bed, the small volume held in one hand while the other snuck down beneath the sheets, panting… he shook his head, suddenly dizzy, and glanced around again. This was so wrong.

Instead he flipped open to the first page, re-reading the title, and then to the next one that was totally blank. Didn't these things usually just get straight to the point? The third page had an ink drawing on it, only a couple inches high, and Jazz had to squint to make out what the lines were supposed to be a picture of. It was two boys, he realized – two naked boys – standing together on the top of a mountain. The one in the middle was tall and fair-haired, head held high, with the smallest of smirks playing about his mouth. The other one had his arms looped around the blonde's waist and his head on his shoulder, dark curls contrasting sharply with the pale skin. He was looking down, not quite meeting the viewer's eye, but even from the odd angle you could see the slight upturn of his lips.

Oh gods. It was a boy's porno. And just as he was starting to think this couldn't get any more awkward, a voice spoke up behind him.

"Can I help you, Jazz?"

Jazz swore and twisted around, book tumbling onto the floor. "Oh, shit… hi."

Frederic stood in the doorway, obviously baffled, and took step forward. "Was there something of mine you needed?"

"N-no, I just–"

The pianist reached the middle of the room and bent down to retrieve the leather-bound volume off the floor, looking at it skeptically for a moment, blinking. Jazz expected the man to blush and stutter or maybe even turn around and run… anything except the raised eyebrow and tiny, knowing smile he actually got. It was as though he had done something wrong.

And maybe he had, Jazz realized. It wasn't any of his business what Frederic did in his own time and in his own room. He had to be patient if he wanted to be let into his lover's life someday, and standing around reading whatever erotica happened to be hidden under the bed certainly wasn't patient.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, the closest thing he'd given to an apology in a long time. Frederic shook his head, looking bemused.

"You can look at this, if you like," he said simply, holding the book out. "I am afraid it likely isn't what you were expecting, though."

Jazz took it uncertainly and pianist's smile widened. "Um… can I ask?"

"This is a philosophy text on the understanding between the Self and the One, personified as the Greek gods Eros and Anteros."

"That's who the picture's of." He flipped open to the drawing again and Frederic nodded.

"They are brothers, gods of love. Their name is the stem of the word 'erotic.'"

Jazz frowned, thumbing through the pages. "But why'd they have to call the book Erotic Relations? Kinda giving people the wrong idea there, don'tcha think?"

"People where I am from don't tend to walk around with their minds in the gutter." The swordsman felt all the blood rush to his face and Frederic laughed. Gods, he could fall in love with that laugh all by itself.

"I don't know where it was bought," he continued, shrugging. "My friend found it for me a while back, years, actually, and I only just found it a few days ago. I've no idea where it came from, but I am certain it is the same one. His signature is still there, on the back cover."

Sure enough, Jazz found, there was a scrawled, illegible signature in the top corner, above a message written in another language. "Is that French?"

"Ah, Spanish, actually. He sent it to me during my stay in Majorca; the whole thing was rather a running joke."

"Saints, how many languages do you speak?"

"Enough." Jazz smiled. That's all anyone could ask.

"So, um… can I borrow this?"

"Of course you may. I already said you could."

He laughed, snapping the volume shut with a soft thud. "I thought maybe my painful ignorance had changed your mind."

"I would love for you to look at it. Perhaps you will find Iamblichus as fascinating as I do."

"What?"

"Hey, Jazz!" A new voice called from the hallway, and Jazz flinched. Well that could've been a nice little romantic moment there.

"You should go appease Viola," Frederic murmured, and he had no choice but to nod. Unappeased Viola would make life miserable for everyone.

"Yeah," he sighed, "I guess I probably should. Thanks for the new read."

"You are welcome. And Jazz?" The swordsman turned around, already at the door, and Frederic smiled. A soft, warm sort of smile that made the breath catch in his throat. "Thank you for the chocolates. They are lovely."

"Oh… yeah. Glad you like them."

"I will see you at dinner?"

He grinned back. "Definitely."